Smoke Screen
by Palaemona
Summary: It broke him, remembering the moments in between. When the ring was slipped into a pocket and hidden away.


_Smoke Screen_

…

He doesn't regret much of life.

It's just what he does end up regretting burns more than anyone ever could have imagined.

…

Sometimes when he finds himself alone in shadowy motel room, shadows clinging to the surfaces, he scrawls words out upon worn scraps of paper.

_Darling, dearest, dead._

He lights cigarette after cigarette, smoking away the past. He wonders what it feels like, to have your whole world burn around you. He doesn't mind it, not really. It feels nice, slowly burning away the flesh and the nerves and the pain.

But of course, he still lives and breathes and hurts with an ache that will never fade with time.

He also wonders secretly if she screamed when she died.

…

_My love for you shall live forever._ _You, however, did not._

He still felt betrayed about it all. Cheated.

The way her womb had been so swollen with life, it hurt. Her eyes had been wide with reality it scorched him, the traces of her smile washed away.

"You're alive." Her words had become hoarse with mourning.

He remains blunt, eyes glued to the ring on her finger. "I never died."

…

_I would much prefer it if you were alive and well._

Violet had her eyes. Bright with intensity and life.

It wasn't fair that he had gone missing, mangled body dragged beneath an undercurrent. It hadn't been fair that he was declared dead. It wasn't fair that she moved on with life, leaving him drinking from the bitter dregs of life.

It wasn't fair that she had been stolen away.

He was whining now, he supposed.

…

When news of a second child reaches him, he smokes several packages of cigarettes.

She loved cigarettes. It had cloaked her identity, shielding her from the world. An endless smoke screen. Dark eyes with knowledge and secrets, wielding them like a double edged sword. She was the masked hero, slipping away into the night.

She had been his.

And now she just wasn't anymore.

_My love flew like a butterfly._

…

They had met with stolen lives. They were spies, of course.

She had been the young French girl, and he had been the artist. She had slipped by, whispering, "It's a sad view from hell."

"I hadn't realized I needed an umbrella." He replied, accepting the folded piece of paper. The world of France burned with life around them, the setting sun kissing the shadows farewell.

She had bit back a laugh, red lips slipping into a smile. "Good luck."

_You will always be in my heart, in my mind, and in your grave._

…

_When we met my life began, soon afterward, yours ended._

Her slender form fought off the chill, wrapped tightly in the old wool shawl. "You and I both know this will never last." A lone cigarette dangles from her fingers, and he can make out the slight bulge in her pocket where that rest lay await.

He sighed, casting a heavy look over his shoulder. "The world is quiet up here."

Her eyes had dropped to the ground, "It's deafening down below."

"I'll return in a few days." He promised, reaching out for her gloved hand.

"Don't bother," She had whispered, turning away. The snow fell, and his heart broke.

…

_When we were together I felt breathless._

He had watched her family, upon occasion.

They never noticed him, gliding by as if her were a mere shadow of the past. Sometimes though, she caught his eyes in the crowd.

Her children clasp her hands, and another grows within her.

_Now you are._

…

_Winter without you is even colder._

He left her to her own fate.

He regrets it now.

…

_Our love broke my heart. _

He can still remember the way her lips felt against his, when their limbs were intertwined. The silk blankets tangling at their feet, the scent of smoke curtaining the air. Her breath gliding over his flesh, the way her hair tumbled down her back.

It broke him, remembering the moments in between.

When the ring was slipped into a pocket and hidden away.

…

He had met her in France, but you already knew that.

She had been pretty, curls tied back with silk ribbons and eyes bright with knowing. He had been stiffened with loneliness, struggling to maintain life.

He knew then.

He was ensnared in her web.

_When we first met, you were pretty, and I was lonely._

…

_Dead women tell no tales._

His story is ending, and her own has already ended.

Her pages of life turned to ash, blowing away in death. His is fading now, and he no longer knows how to begin nor how to end.

She's left him no, leaving him to scribble out his existence on tiny little scraps, only to set them to fire.

It's a horrid cycle of life, but on the most part-it's tolerable.

…

_No one could extinguish my love._

Her children go missing. Tiny fragments of her being, swept away into reality.

He still wonders, of course, what it would have been like if they were his and she was his and he was with her now. If he had never been declared dead, and it had been him that proposed and her that said yes. If those children were his to treasure.

But he knows the answers.

It would have been happy.

…

_I cherished, you perished._

His life remains bleak and dark, with only a grim ending close by.

"I love you still," He whispers in the shadows.

…

He doesn't need many bullets now. Only one will do.

In the end, there was nothing more that he could do.

He pulls the trigger.

…

_We are like boats passing in the night -_

_Particularly you._


End file.
